


Turn This Blue Moon into Gold

by PalacesAndPines



Series: The Nearest Thing to Heaven [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU before Bill and Fleur's wedding, Angst, F/M, Grimmauld Place, Kissing and Conversation, No Remus/Tonks, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PalacesAndPines/pseuds/PalacesAndPines
Summary: “Is it a waltz?” She said, looking up at him.He offered the smallest, and most timid of smiles. His voice was rough and soft. “Does it matter?”She took his hand, because no, of course it didn’t.Or, in the weeks before the ministry falls and the Second Wizarding War begins, Remus Lupin and Hermione Granger develop a nightly routine amidst insomnia, melancholy and a shared love of hot chocolate. On one such night, kindness and conversation become a little bit more.





	Turn This Blue Moon into Gold

It was a cool summer night in London, and the darkness seemed to engulf the mansion known as 12 Grimmauld Place. It was nearly 2:00 in the morning and the house was pitch-black save for the welcoming glow coming from the little kitchen on the first floor. Remus Lupin sat at the round table with two mugs of chocolate. He placed a warming charm on one, and sipped at the other. He glanced at the clock and wondered how long he would have to wait. By the time he had brought his attention back to his mug, the gramophone in the corner crackled to life. It seemed he wouldn’t be waiting long at all.

 “Good evening, Professor.”

“Good evening, Miss Granger.” Remus smiled, and turned to see his evening companion standing in the doorway. He gestured to the chair across the table, and the steaming mug of chocolate waiting there. “Would you care to join me? It seems my insomnia has once again gotten the better of me.”

Hermione Granger smiled. She took a seat, brought the mug to her lips.

“And how are we his evening?” It was a question he asked every night, and he had received a variety of answers from ‘ _quite well, thank you_ ’ to ‘ _peeved!_ _The-boys-are-being-ridiculous!_ ”

The corner of Hermione’s mouth twisted up at the familiarity of the question. “A bit melancholic I suppose.”

She didn’t tell him that he was the reason for much of said melancholy, with his smiles and goodness and intellect. She could not shake him from her mind no matter how she tried, and every night she was unable to resist the temptation of joining him downstairs.

 “I feel terribly old. Silly, isn’t it?” She looked up at him; tried to smile in jest, but her eyes betrayed her. He was reminded again of her maturity and wisdom. Two of her many traits that shone through her and made him forget how very young she was. He liked to forget sometimes, if he was quite honest with himself.

Remus’ hands shifted on the table. He considered sliding his hand across the table to take hers, only to think better of it and place it against his mug. He sighed and hoped his words could reach her in a way that his cowardly hands could not.

“It isn’t silly. War has a habit of making the old, older and the young, ancient. By the time we’re through, I’m afraid any brown in my hair will be very, very grey.” He felt so very accomplished when she smiled, and her eyes scanned his hair in scrutiny.

“I’d say you have plenty of brown left Remus,” she told him, bringing her mug of chocolate again to her lips, the bitter-sweetness lingered on her tongue. She took the opportunity to admire not only his hair, but his jaw line too. She wanted to smile at the way his glasses lay slightly crooked on his nose. It was not the first time she has thought him handsome; rather, it was one of the many. While there was nothing spectacular about his appearance, she felt there was something unusual just the same.  A sort of light behind his kind eyes, perhaps. This kind of speculation always left her feeling foolish, but on nights like this, she could not help it.

 He raised his eyes to meet hers.

“I don’t know this music.” he murmured.

Hermione, who had been worrying her lip, smiled. “Well,” she said, “I’m not surprised. It’s muggle music, you see.”

Her companion looked puzzled. “How in Merlin’s name did you manage to get the signal to a muggle radio station?”

“It wasn’t as difficult as you might think,” she told him. “You see, this house is in the middle of muggle London, so transmitters and receivers are naturally everywhere. While the magic within the house still repels muggle technology, the repellent isn’t quite as strong as, say, at the Burrow because we’re in the city and signals are everywhere.” Remus was nodding as she explained with his chin resting on one of his hands. He looked simultaneously amused and impressed as Hermione continued on. “I used the advanced summoning spell to bring the signal close to where I wanted it then pushed it away and brought it back again. It creates a sort of ricochet, and as the magic gets faster and less controllable, the closer the signal gets. It’s like how it’s difficult to color fast and inside the lines. Anyway, when it was where I needed it, I isolated the signal.”

“You’re brilliant, you know. You’re utterly brilliant.” He beamed at her, and shook his head in disbelief as a soft chuckle resonated through his chest.

“No,” she tried to keep the heat from rising to her cheeks, “No, I’m just highly logical.”

Remus decided there were few things he liked more than the blush of Hermione Granger. He very nearly hated himself for it. “Can’t you be both?” She wouldn’t respond; he was familiar with her modesty.

She placed a hand to her cheek as if meaning to wipe its color away. She blew out a short little breath before smiling at him, leaving only the music between them. He listened to the old sound of strings and brass, and a woman’s low, sweet voice. It reminded him of something he could not name; something old and good and a little sad. Nostalgia for the senses.

“I like it.” He said, “the music.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Mum and Dad always listen to this station. It’s news during the day, but after midnight they play older songs; from the forties, mostly. Whenever I couldn’t sleep I would join them in the sitting room, they would have this playing. I don’t know why. I never asked them. I didn’t feel like I needed to, it was something that always was; something constant.”

Her eyes watered and her eyelids fluttered. She was glad her parents were safe, and far away, and yet the thought of never seeing them again was very present in her mind. She hoped that they were sitting and listening, as she and Remus were. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m rather poor company tonight.” She tucked a wild stand of hair behind her ear. “Everything’s caught up with me I suppose.”

He reached for her hand then, for he could not bear not to. “You needn’t apologize. I’m grateful for the company, always.” His warm rough hand covered her small one.

Behind them, someone sang of falling shadows and the eventual coming of dawn, of bluebirds returning to great white cliffs. The song riled something within her and she stared intently at their joined hands.

“Everything is so different now, isn’t it? I feel as though I’ve aged a hundred years. And Harry, this is so much more than him now. This war, it’s everything. And me!” She laughed at herself, forever the fool. “I go searching in books, as if the written word or a simple equation will hold the answer to the salvation of millions of lives. I’m so scared, Remus. I’m worried that knowledge and goodness won’t be enough to win this war.”

She watched as Remus pulled his hand away, running it through his hair, and breathing deeply.

“It’s more than winning; its surviving, my dear. Remember that. Every day you live, every pain that you endure, that is surviving. Winning is a brief moment in time, it lasts just a second. But surviving is the greater feat. Surviving is all that comes before that moment and everything after.” He gave her a smile. “Now, from everything I know about the years you, Harry and Ron have spent at Hogwarts, if there is one thing I believe, it's that you three are very capable of surviving.”

She gave a small breathless laugh and wiped her eyes. “You think there is a chance then?”

“Yes.” And it was true. He could not help but believe that their fight was the greater one. He could not see how the world would be so cruel as to see the darkness win, to see the death of his friends mean nothing. In truth, he couldn’t see himself coming out of what was to come, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was securing this beautiful, terrible world. He had great faith in Dumbledore, in Harry, and in the brilliant witch in front of him. She deserved a magnificent future, and it was a future he would fight to the death to make sure she received.

He gazed at her again as a saxophone blared. Behind him, he heard a woman sing of loneliness and the omniscience of the moon. He averted his eyes, and very nearly chuckled at the thought that these were the things he had become most acquainted with in his forty years of life. But then she sang of love, and he was suddenly struck by the strange feeling that he had heard this song somewhere before, long, long ago. He listened to the swelling sound of the saxophone, the singer’s honeyed crooning, and before he could stop himself, he was standing and offering her his hand.

“Is it a waltz?” She said, looking up at him.

He offered the smallest, and most timid of smiles. His voice was rough and soft. “Does it matter?”

She took his hand, because no, of course it didn’t.

He led her to the center of the kitchen floor and pulled his wand from his pocket, pointing it at the gramophone behind her. The song began anew and she watched him swallow as he took her hand, followed by her waist. He pulled her close. She felt warm, could feel her face burn just a little. She wished her sudden warmth was merely the result of the nearly empty beverage on the table. She knew it wasn’t. Her heart plummeted, and she closed her eyes, trying to regain some sense of control as they begin to sway. She hated her weakness; hated how insomnia and hot chocolate had become this ache within her that was never sated. Far away, she heard him speak.

She took a breath, “pardon?”

“I said, it’s been quite a while since I danced with anyone.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I believe the last time was with Minerva at the staff formal, back when I was teaching.” The corner of his mouth turned up a bit at the memory.

“Professor McGonagall? And how was that?”

“Oh, it was quite lovely. I had been standing in the corner all night sipping wine and occasionally conversing. At the end of the night she took pity on me. In fact, as I recall, it was more of a demand, rather than a request.” Hermione let herself laugh a bit then, her head falling forward and just barely resting on his shoulder. She allowed herself to stay there for a beat, before lifting her head again and finding his eyes.  “Before that, I supposed the last time was at James’ and Lily’s wedding.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

She wanted to say something; to offer him the comfort he had often given her, but she couldn’t seem to find the words. _How odd_ , she thought, _Hermione Granger with nothing to say_. But then, he did have a habit of leaving her speechless, with only ghosts of words in her throat.

“And you? What does your illustrious dancing history look like?” He smiled.

She bit her lip. “Oh, well I’ve only ever really danced with Viktor, during fourth year.” She watched him blanch.

“Viktor Krum?”

“Well, yes.”

“What a horrible thing to know. How in Merlin’s name could I possibly compare to the greatest seeker in the last fifty years?” He was smiling in jest and her chest finally burst as she felt the bubbles of laughter spill out.

“You asked!” She struggled to catch her breath. “If you must know, Viktor is a lovely person, however, he does not excel at dancing.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re saying I’m a better dancer that Viktor Krum?” The girl in his arms gave a shy nod.  ‘My, my, I ought to alert the Prophet. Headlines could read: ‘ _Old, bedraggled Werewolf and Exceptional Waltzer, Puts Krum to Shame!’”_ He almost saw her sadness disappear. It was almost enough to make his disappear too. She looked up at him.

“You’re not old Remus. And you’re certainly not bedraggled. I will agree, however, that your waltzing is rather good.” She tried to say it matter-of -fact. Tried not to let the affection seep though. Tried to ignore his breath, and his warm hand on her back.

He spun her around and watched as she beamed. Her hair had rebelled against her nightly attempts at keeping it up, and a few strands had escaped, giving her a messy sort of frame around her face. Her eyes seemed warmer to him than they ever had before, and he feared they would burn him if he gazed into them for too long. Somewhere between her laughter and his jest, between the _1-2-3_ of steps, and the spinning away and pulling her back, they had managed to be closer than they ever had before. Her chest rose and fell against his.

“You’re lovely.”

Her head shot up in surprise. He looked as though the words came out without him granting their leave.

He swallowed. Cursed himself. He took a shaky breath. “A- a- lovely dancer. That is—you’re rather good too.” He didn’t meet her eyes.

“Thank you.” She tried not to sound disappointed. “Professor McGonagall taught me—us, fourth year.”

“She taught me too.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Imagine all the fourth years she’s taught to waltz. All the dancing she’s responsible for.” His breath hitched. “I suppose she’s responsible for this one.”

Hermione’s _yes_ sounded like a sigh. It was almost drowned out by the music, as the song reached its peak.

Remus searched for something to say, anything that might stop him from kissing her a million times, from trailing a million mistakes against her mouth, along her jaw, into her neck. 

“We ought to thank her…” Hermione tilted her head up, her mouth just slightly open.  He knew she mustn’t mean it, but the girl would surely kill him.

“Yes…Yes, I suppose…” The song slowed and quieted, the last notes tinkling in air. She didn’t take her eyes off him, and he didn’t let her go.. His breath was labored, and she told herself it was only the dancing, but being wrapped in his arms she could not help but think, _please, please_ …

There was the crackling of the gramophone for two, three, four seconds before the next song started. His hands dropped. He stepped away. Dear God, he thought, _Dear God._

Hermione stood still and watched as he turned away and ran his hands through his hair. Her chest and back were cold from where he had held her so close only moments before.

“Remus—”

“It’s nearly 3:00… we should go to bed.” He walked to the table, picked up the empty mugs of chocolate, and placed them in the sink. He turned around, and she was there, right there, millimeters in front of him. She wrapped her arms around him. She was shaking. He wondered if she was if crying. He was shaking too, ever so slightly.

Hermione buried her head against his throat. He smelled of sandalwood and books and spearmint. She felt his lips press against her forehead. She gasped, tilted her face up to meet his, and brushed her lips against his. It was barely a kiss, but it was enough for him to shatter. Because she wanted him. She _wanted_ him. She wanted _him_.

His lips came crashing down on hers. Gentle, calloused hands cupped her face, buried themselves in her hair, travelled down her arms and her back. His mouth was hot and insistent and she felt like she’d drown in the pleasure of it. She found her back pressed against the counter and his firm body held her there. Her hands gripped his shirt, fistfuls of worn cotton. She shivered as his tongue found hers.

He made a sound against her, a sort of a moan or a gasp, that made her head feel dizzy and a pool of warmth settle deep within her stomach. His lips pressed frantic kisses against her jaw and the corner of her mouth. She felt the roughness of his stubble against her cheek, and the pressure of his hips pressed firmly against hers. One of her hands untangled itself from his shirt to feel the heat of his chest and the sparse hair where the top button remained undone. There was warmth and pleasure and breathlessness, and then –

It ended as quickly as it had begun. The clock struck three, and he was shaken from his reverie. He pulled away, holding her at arm’s length. And so, he was only a man. _A damned man at that_. He could barely look at her, with her hair a mess, and her lips pink and swollen from his. His arms fell to his sides.

“Forgive me,” he said, “forgive me.”

She reached for him. “No, no, Remus, I kissed you! I wanted—I want—”

His gaze was severe. “We can’t.”

“Please…”Her eyes burned. “Remus, I – I—” Her voice shook. _Foolish, stupid girl_.

She loved him. There are days when she felt like her heart would burst with it. There was a war, and she was uncertain she would see the end of it. That would be alright, if only it meant she could have him, even in secret, at 3:00 in the morning over chocolate and conversation, during slow dances in the kitchen. No one understood this certain part of her, this lonely, scared, nostalgic insomniac like he did. No one else quoted her Charles Dickens and Oscar Wilde and and Shakespeare. No one else picked her mind quite like he did, and no one else quite soothed this melancholy animal that roared to life every night when she tried to put her head on her pillow. Maybe he loved her too. Then again, perhaps he was only sad, and lonely and a little broken. She wouldn’t fault him for it. She was too.

“Shhh…” He pulled her back to him, wrapped her in his arms. Gone was the deep fire and the desperation. His arms were now only an apology. A friend. A former professor.

His hand squeezed her shoulder. Dear God he loved her, and Merlin he wished he didn’t. It seemed the poor girl might love him too. She would get over that soon enough; beautiful, brilliant women didn’t stay in love with men like him for long. Especially one so young as she. But how often had he wished for what she offered? Kissing and dancing and conversation and kindness. And now he turned her away. He membered a time, not so long ago, when an exasperated Sirius had called him a _bloody-idiot-allergic-to-happiness._ Perhaps he was. But there was this guilt he couldn’t shake and the undeniable fact that there was a war that needed fighting.

“We can’t.” The repeated words seemed to ricochet off the kitchen walls; _we can’t we can’t we can’t_. A tear rolled down her cheek as she looked down. He kissed the top of her head. Hermione took his hand and squeezed it, tried to memorize the feel of his hands, gentle and calloused and strong. She tried to tell herself that it was enough. She knew it was a lie.

“Goodnight, Remus.”

He swallowed thickly. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

She turned to go. She wondered if he watched as she left the kitchen. She imagined him sitting at the little table with his head in his hands. The stairs squeaked as she climbed. Her eyes still blurred from her tears as she gripped the railing. She could still hear the gramophone and its slight crackle. In the kitchen, a French woman sang of regretting nothing, of love.

When she reached her room, she slid into bed. Ginny was still sleeping, snoring softly, and the room was dark save for the gentle glow of the moon out the window. Her sheets were cool. She breathed deeply and tried to calm her frantically beating heart. She brought her fingers to her lips.

She wondered what would happen in the morning. She wondered if Remus would meet her eyes at breakfast. She wondered if everything is changed, undone. She wondered if he loved her. She wondered if he would be in the kitchen tomorrow night, sitting and waiting, with two mugs of chocolate.

**Author's Note:**

> The Songs mentioned are "The White Cliffs of Dover," sung by Vera Lynn, "Blue Moon," sung by Jo Stafford, and "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien," sung by Edith Piaf.


End file.
